She never thought five years of sobriety could feel so fragile.
Most days, she didn’t even think about the girl she used to be—thirteen years old, sneaking behind the baseball field with Robin Arellano, both of them pretending that the burn of a cigarette made them older, braver, less scared of the world they were already fighting. At fourteen, she found out she was pregnant, and everything changed overnight. She and Robin quit cold turkey because they had to, because a baby doesn’t wait for you to get your life together.
By eighteen, they had a five-year-old son and a rhythm that kind of worked. They were young parents, tired parents, but they were clean. Together.
But today… today cracked something she thought was solid.
Her entire shift had been miserable—customers yelling, coworkers slacking, her supervisor breathing down her neck. By the time her break finally came, her nerves were stretched so thin she felt like one wrong word would snap her in half.
Instead of going home, she drifted to the gas station across the street.
She told herself she just needed a drink.
But inside, the air was thick with that dusty, chemical smell—cigarettes. Old memories. Old habits. The kind she wished she could forget.
The cashier, a guy barely older than her, glanced at her tired eyes and work badge and made a low whistle. “Rough shift? You look like you need something to take the edge off.”
He nodded toward the cigarette wall behind him, casual, careless. “Everyone grabs one after a day like that. Trust me, it helps.”
He said it like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t a five-year battle for her. Like it wasn’t a cliff she spent half her life trying not to fall off.
She hesitated—but only for a moment. “Just one pack,” she heard herself say.
He didn’t even ask for ID.
The walk home was quiet, heavy. The unopened pack felt like a confession in her pocket. She kept telling herself she wouldn’t do it. That she just bought it because she had a bad day. That it wouldn’t matter.
But when she reached the porch—empty, still, tucked away from the street—something inside her cracked. She lit one. She took a drag. It burned her throat, tasted harsher than she remembered, but for a moment it shut off the ache inside her chest.
She only smoked half. Then she crushed it out on the step and stood there, staring at the tiny curl of smoke fading into the air like a secret she already regretted.
When she stepped inside, Robin was in the living room with Mateo. Their son was on the floor surrounded by a messy pile of colorful blocks, proudly showing off a lopsided tower, and Robin—patient, tired, gentle Robin—was pretending to be amazed.
He looked up the second the door closed.
His smile faded instantly.
Robin’s eyes narrowed, then softened with something closer to fear than anger. His whole body went still in that way he had—like he could feel trouble before it even spoke.
“You’re home,” he said quietly.
She nodded, trying to swallow the guilt rising in her throat.
And then Robin’s face changed again, this time sharper. His voice was barely above a whisper.
“…You smell like smoke.”
Her heart dropped to her stomach.
Robin didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t accuse. He just stared at her like the truth was already written across her face in letters she couldn’t erase.
In the small quiet of the living room—with Mateo humming to himself on the floor—the air felt painfully heavy.
She stood frozen in the doorway, the pack still hidden in her pocket, trying to find the right words.
Trying to decide whether to tell the truth… or try to outrun it.
The silence stretched long and thin, waiting for her to break it.